


Father, Let Me Tell You a Story

by TargaryenHeaven



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Boatie Targaryen all grown up, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Heavy Angst, I totally gave the Prince of Dorne the most ridiculous name, It's not madness it's ruthlessness, Resurrection, Revenge, Targaryen Restoration, Targaryen twins, Time Jump, War, War-torn Westeros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 12:02:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19945852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TargaryenHeaven/pseuds/TargaryenHeaven
Summary: 16 years after Daenerys Targaryen's death, war-torn Westeros is on the verge of starvation.Jon Snow lives beyond the wall with free folk, trying to come up with a solution.  The last dragon pays him a visit. Only he's not alone.When Jon sees her silver hair, his world turns upside down.





	Father, Let Me Tell You a Story

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. First I have to thank you for the incredible feedback Hotel California received. I knew exactly what I was doing with that one and I'm glad y'all liked it. ;) 
> 
> However, this is something I wrote about a month ago. I was thinking about how we deserved to see Mommy Daenerys but I also wanted Westeros to suffer (I still do), so I mixed both ideas into one. It isn't really a descriptive story, it includes a lot of conversation because Daenerys is the main focus, and her story needs to be told, not shown. And I am way better at writing smut so it is what it is.
> 
> THIS IS NOT A PERSONAL ATTACK ON JON. I love Jon with all my heart, but oh well, he did kinda stab her in the titty.

It was real, too real. The blood on the damp ground beneath her cold, lifeless body. The sound of her taking her very last breath before closing her eyes forever. Drogon nudging his mother in hope of waking her from her eternal slumber. Her son, her only child, crying and screeching as if he was a small boy wailing with pain and fear. 

Sometimes he could even touch her in his dreams. The dagger was in his hand, her soft lips kissing him with so much hope and love and he would kiss her back one last time before piercing her beating heart with the cold steel. 

The first three moons were the hardest. Every night his mind would force him to relive that moment, and every morning he would put on his cloak and do his duty, trying to fill the hole she left behind all those years ago. Wounding her meant wounding himself, another deep cut over his heart. Only there was nothing to see, only to feel. It wouldn't heal. And it _hurt._

The free folk did what they could for themselves. With the Night King defeated, the lands beyond the wall were theirs to explore, and they promised him it would get better. He would forget his past and start a new life. He would meet a new woman and have many _little crows_ with her. He would finally be allowed to be himself, not Aegon, not a king, not a lord, not a knight. Jon Snow. 

Moon after moon and he was starting to sleep through the nights. He felt as if his body was split in two. One was wielding a dagger, standing in the flames, the other was wielding Longclaw, standing in the snow. And so they fought their battles, every night, until he felt the fire running out. The dagger was thrown into the fire, and that part of him was slowly dying.

His cousins were safe, too. Sansa, the Queen of the North, had full support of the Northern houses and other Six Kingdoms. Bran, King of the Six Kingdoms, started building a new fleet under the Stark banners. Arya wrote in her letter about the new island she was eager to explore. 

And her met her. A golden haired beauty, with eyes so bright they almost seemed colorless. A fierce warrior she was, brave, stern, quick and excellent rider. She did not need to smile, she would turn heads with only her appearance. And she wanted to be his.

He would kiss her - then he would stop.  
  
He would touch her - then he would pull away.  
  
He would look her in the eyes - then look away.  
  
"Forgive me," he would say. "Perhaps some other time."  
  
"Forgive me, not tonight."  
  
"Forgive me, I can't."  
  
She'd forgive and forgive until she grew tired of excuses and he became merely another man in her life.

And so the time was passing, day after day, night after night. Excuses. Forgiveness. Duty.  
  
The same children he watched play in the snow so long ago were now wielding swords before him, women would run from one hut to another with warm cloths and water, screams would echo through the village and then he'd hear the miracle of a newborn babe crying for the first time, celebrating life.  
  
It was all perfect, too perfect perhaps.  
  
Until it wasn't.

* * *

"So tell me what to do, Davos! Jon shouted, slamming his fists against the wooden table in front of him, nearly throwing the candles to the ground. "I can't bring everyone beyond the wall, we are barely getting any food ourselves. I don't know how to help you, I don't know what to do." 

"Believe me, I understand that. But if we don't do something, the North is going to starve to death. Your sister won't be able to defend herself if the Northmen rise against her. And the Kingdoms... We lost nearly twenty thousand men, and the bloody Dornishmen are about to attack again," Davos' hands were trembling. The old man sat on the chair at the table, calming himself down. "The trade isn't going well either. No ships from Pentos in over two moons."

Watching as Davos' breathing was getting heavier, Jon joined him at the table, sitting on the opposite side. "This can't be the end, Davos." 

Davos didn't respond. He listened as the wood was slowly burning inside the hearth. He watched as the first ray of sunlight was breaching through the clouds. Sitting in that comfortable silence with an old friend, he could remember clearly how their downfall began. The prince of Dorne asked a simple question with such formality that King Bran, with all his powers, couldn't answer him. 

_"If the North can be independent, why can't we?"_

Davos was happy for Jon, in a way. He distanced himself from both Kingdoms but still it hurt to see him dragged into every conflict his sister or brother had. Davos rose to his feet, but before he could even look at Jon, an uncanny scream from the outside made his hairs stand up.

And then they heard it. That sound from up above. That eerie harmony.  
  
"Gods, please no..." Davos muttered, holding onto the edge of the table.

Jon's felt his knees shake, barely supporting his weight while he was trying to bring himself to move from the place he was standing. He gathered himself together, thanking the gods for every breath he was taking, for it meant the scalding fire wasn't raining upon them yet. 

Those who had the pleasure of meeting the Mother of Dragons all those years ago stood frozen. Those brave warriors who heard stories about Her Grace ran, hoping with all their heart they would have time to escape the wrath of the raging beast whose mother was killed. 

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Jon watched as the shadow of the flying beast blocked the rays of sun and he closed his eyes, remembering the wise words about dragons and how agonizing death by fire is. Only if the gods look down upon you, you'll turn to ash before the pain breaks you. _He's come for me_ , Jon thought. _It's me he wants._

Children were screaming in their mothers' arms and while free folk were searching for shelter, Tormund seemed to be the only one running towards Jon and Davos who watched as the beast circled freely above them. 

"We should be dead by now. Why aren't we?" Tormund asked.  
  
"Go," Jon told them. "Go, find shelter. It's me he wants. He's here for me."  
  
"You don't know what he bloody wants!" Davos argued.  
  
"You're a madman, run, you fool!" Tormund yelled at Jon.

When Jon looked up, Drogon had already started descending from the clouds, covering the huts in thin layers of snow as his wings flapped, creating winds as strong as those they had to survive in the winter.

His claws touched the ground and it shook violently underneath him, each step he took they could feel in their bones. Jon didn't know his age, but he knew that dragons were growing their entire life, and that dragon who melted the Iron Throne and spared his life was nothing more than a babe. 

Drogon was even more beautiful now, with his skin as dark as the night and blood red wings, matching the color of the spikes and plates across his neck and back. 

_Gods forgive me_ , he prayed, taking off his glove and one step forward, but Drogon growled at him, warning him that he was indeed here to _hurt_ him. 

"Drogon?" He sang when the beast stood still in its place. He watched as he curved his long neck towards the curve of his back, as if someone from above was talking to him. He lowered his body to the ground and...

He froze.

His heart threatened to rip him apart from inside out at the sight.

_It can't be her..._

On Drogon's muscled arm stood a girl, someone he'd never seen before but somehow she felt so familiar to him. Her long, curly, silver hair almost touched the curve of her back, and in those beautiful weaves were two simple braids held by a small silver bell. Her coat was as white as the snow beneath her.

_Her hair..._

Only when the girl stepped on the ground did Davos and Tormund see her figure in the distance, their breaths hitching simultaneously. 

The knot in his stomach was loosened and he felt bile rising up in his throat. Teary eyed, he crouched, letting everything he kept inside him out. 

She had a regal posture, walked like the world was hers. As she was approaching him he was walking backwards, he was seeing a ghost, he was sure of it. 

Her lips were as pouty as hers, though slightly blue in color, cold. Her nose was just as delicate, slim and perfectly tailored to make her side profile look like a sculpted masterpiece. Her eyebrows were just as bushy and dark, and under them...

_Gods, her eyes._

Her eyes were obsidian black, much like his own. And when he dared to seek her glare, she granted him a permission to stare into her eyes and see himself inside them. Standing daringly close to his face, the girl's jaw clenched, and he knew it then, _he just knew._

"How- How old are you?" Jon's voice cracked, tears falling down his cheeks.

"Sixteen."  
  
 _Her voice._

"That's not possible... It's not possible... It can't be," Jon was shaking his head, walking away from her as his tears began falling on the ground. 

"Father," the girl addressed him formally. 

Drogon's nostrils widened as he growled at Jon. "Sōvegon, lēkia," she whispered softly. When Drogon took off, what he thought was a smile on her face was gone as quickly as it came, and anger flooded her veins.

"Now that I found you, father, let me tell you a story."

* * *

_This isn't happening, this is just another dream_ , Jon was desperately trying to calm himself, running his scarred fingers through his curls. Aging almost did no harm to him, his raven hair only just began to turn to white while his beard and mustache remained the same, as if he still was a young man.

She stood in front of the door, calm and determined to torture him for as long as she could with a stern look on her face. He stared at her from the other side of the room, unable to keep his body from trembling. She had her mother's features yet she looked so much like him, the way she stood with her fingers intertwined reminded him of _his Queen_ and how she would do that exact same thing when addressing someone formally.

"What's- What's your name?" Jon whispered, swallowing hard while trying to fight back the sudden rush of repressed emotions.

"Daenys Targaryen."

"Daenys..." Jon breathed. "I'm- I'm Jon." 

"I know who you are," she taunted him, approaching. When she saw him backing away again, until his back met the wall, her lip curved into a smile. There was an eerie resemblance to her, and he closed his eyes to take it in, to convince himself this wasn't a ghost sent to torment him. 

"Are you afraid of me?" Daenys cocked her head to one side. He shook her head almost immediately, afraid he might say something wrong and push her further away. "Oh, I see," she smirked. "I did take after my mother."

"How... How is this possible? She wasn't pregnant, she never told me-"

"She didn't tell you because you killed her," Daenys interrupted him, holding back her urge to yell out. When she saw him breaking down in front of her, she almost felt bad, but it only ignited the fire and she watched him, pitying the man who was her father. 

"How- I saw Drogon taking her body, how are you here..." was all Jon could say.

"Well, I did offer to tell you a story," Daenys said, scanning the items scattered across the hut. So much she recognized, there was so much to say to him and she wanted to scream the words but she looked him in the eyes instead, offering him a chance to take a good look at his daughter. _His daughter._

"He took her body to Volantis," she began. "The Red Temple. You're familiar with the magic, are you not? How did the story go..." she traced her finger across the edge of the table. "Betrayed. Killed by those he trusted. Stabbed in the heart?" Daenys stood in front of him, whispering the last words to his face. 

"Did she... Is she...?" 

"No," Daenys responded, backing away. "Your brother, Brandon the Broken, is it? Was... spying on Drogon with his little birds. Not a smart thing to do, trust me. The Priestess knew it and used her magic on him, and my mother. That's why he was presumed dead, lost. But there he was, he refused to leave her side until she opened her eyes."

Jon felt his breathing coming back to normal, but his heart refused to beat in sync. "Did she die having you?"

"She died when you stabbed her. A part of her, at least. And that part would haunt her. Every day. She begged the Priestess to let her die so she could be with her dead children. Free. Until the Priestess told her the Lord of Light saved more than one life that day."

Daenys unbuttoned her coat and much to Jon's surprise, she wore a tunic underneath, and not a dress like her mother. She looked like a true dragon princess, fierce and full of life. A chain around her neck caught his eye, and his body shuddered at the sight. What once was a three headed silver dragon was now a single dragon head. When it was thrown in front of his feet, Jon sought her glare. 

"It was her first gift to me. She didn't die on her birthing bed," Daenys nonchalantly continued. "After you were send to the wall, Grey Worm and half of the the Unsullied sailed for Naath and the Dothraki went back to Dragonstone. Your gods blessed you, the Dothraki kept their promise to her and went back to Essos. Before Grey Worm reached Naath and his certain death, he was met by Volantene mercenaries near Valyria, who claimed they were sent by the High Priestess to escort them to Volantis. Grey Worm didn't trust them, of course, until they told him Daenerys Targaryen was alive, and informed him about Naath's... nature."

Daenys took her stand near the table, intertwining her fingers under her belly. 

"Thankfully, Grey Worm took her gold before he left Westeros. We lived in a big house, mother had it built for us. She would paint the door herself every now and then, always in red, and we had lemon trees in our gardens. I was told she held me at her breast, refusing to give me to a wet nurse. She would make presents for my nameday, and sometimes she would let me sleep in her bed and tell me stories. When I grew older, I begged her to let Grey Worm teach me how to wield a spear. She finally did, when I was 11. You should see me now."

Jon imagined her as a mother. Soft and protective and hysterical, and it brought a smile to his face. But the very thought of her with children also brought back those terrible memories of that day. Burnt children, ash, snow. 

"Daenys... Has she ever told you what she- What she did?" 

"In King's Landing? Do you think she would lie to her own child? Her mistake, her only mistake, father, was not burning Westeros to the ground," Daenys gritted her white teeth. "She lost everything because of you. Viserion, Rhaegal, Missandei, Jorah, her army, her sanity, her life. But she never hated you, you know that? Never. Do you know what my first memory of her is? Her, weeping, as she held me close to her! I asked where my father was, what did I know? I was only a child."

"I'm sorry, I-"

"You're not sorry!" Whatever barrier held Daenys from breaking down was broken, and in a fit of rage her small hands slammed the table. "I didn't come here to hear you crying and screaming, or to make you feel bad. Quite the opposite. I came here to finish the story of Daenerys Targaryen because there was so much she never told you, and she wanted to. Has she ever told you how she felt when she found out you where Rhaegar's son? She was terrified. Terrified because she was the rightful heir to the throne, but you were a man, and men are always put before women. But she was happy, too. To finally have a family and a man who wasn't gonna hurt her."

"I loved her, Daenys. I still do, to this day. But she was lost. No remorse. No pain. Nothing. She was empty. 

"And you joined the Night's Watch after you killed her. That was a punishment for your crime. Kinslaying and queenslaying. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but you were living under the same roof with rapists and murderers? And you were calling them your brothers. Are the women in Westeros killed because there is no other punishment for them?"

The air was heavy with tension. Sitting on a chair, Jon stared off into the distance. Outside, Drogon screeched above them and just like all those years ago, he hated the North. The fire inside the hearth was slowly going out, making the air clearer and chillier. 

"Did she ever tell you why you meant to so much to her?" Daenys turned to him, her voice lower. "Aerys died before she could meet him, but he was mad, truly, and he enjoyed being mad. Viserys was much like him. He abused her like she was his property. Insulted her. Beat her. Sold her to a Khal for an army, that's how much her life was worth. You were the first man she trusted completely with her own body." 

"Please... don't tell me that. Tell me something else, I beg of you. Tell me about yourself. You said she was a good mother, tell me about it. I wanna hear it. _Please._ "

His words came out like a pray. He tasted the saltiness of his tear before wiping it off with the sleeve of his shirt. There was a burden on his chest, suffocating him, draining the remaining energy from his sinewy body. It felt so unreal, so illusory, to have a child of his own standing in front of him, and he could touch her, feel her, kiss her forehead, hug her. If only. _If only..._

"No," Daenys spoke flatly. "I don't have time for your tears. I came to Westeros to honor my mother, and I intend to do it. Have you heard about the Slave Revolt in Essos?"

"Slave Revolt?"

"Yes, Slave Revolt. After the news about Daenerys Targaryen's death spread, the Wise Masters and the Good Masters reclaimed the cities mother liberated. Put men, women and children in chains again. There were statues of her in Meereen, can you imagine? They tore them down, all of them. She was furious when she heard. About slavery, of course. So she and Grey Worm came up with a plan. The Unsullied from her army would breach the gates of the city and disguise themselves as slaves. The masters were celebrating their victory, mocking her death, mocking the 'silver haired whore'. Some were killed in their sleep, some _drank_ themselves to sleep but when they woke up, it was her face they saw. The face of the dead silver haired whore, staring at them. With all the masters gone, the former slaves retook their cities and rebuilt them."

It was funny. Westeros remembered her as the Mad Queen who burned King's Landing to the ground, but Essos knew her as Mhysa, the silver haired queen who ended slavery, birthed dragons, united the Dothraki and walked through fire. Only this time she was lurking from the shadows, like a silent killer. 

"She was behind that?" Jon's eyebrow arched. Had Daenys looked carefully, perhaps she would've seen a sparkle in his eyes. 

"Yes. Her Unsullied never told the former slaves it was Daenerys Targaryen who ordered the masters' execution, only that they were honoring her legacy. With cities safe from the masters, people were free to work and start new lives. New ports were built, the pyramid of Meereen was repaired, new statues of her were made. She was presumed dead, yet they never forgot her. Same can't be told about your people," Daenys blurted out. "Sixteen years ago you chose the Starks over her. What kind of man chooses his siblings over a woman he loves?"

It was disgust on Daenys' face. She studied Jon and his movements, scanning him from head to toe. Deep down she felt sorry for the man, but expressing it and feeling it were two different things. 

"I did what I had to do to protect the people! She would've burned everything, everyone!"

"And she should have!" Jon winced at her sudden outburst. "Do you think I came here to help you? Do you think I came here to help your sister who openly conspired behind my mother's back? Feed the people who betrayed my mother, give an army to the Usurper, fight your wars? Oh, father, you're just as naive as I expected you to be." 

Eyeing the expanse of the dimly lit room, Daenys spotted a sword sitting in the corner, covered in dust, as if it has been long forgotten. The wolf on top of the handle appeared to be missing both ears and the defined jaw was broken, leaving only the head and the outline of the fur. Daenys smiled to herself. 

"Some say you are the best swordsman in Westeros. Mother said I took after you. Oh, I almost forgot to ask, do you know why Drogon spared your life? He knew mother was pregnant even before her handmaidens confirmed it. Kept sniffing her belly, nudging her. He didn't think you were worthy, that's why you're alive. Even now, he's seething, but he doesn't want you dead, he wants you to suffer. Well... She."

"Daenys..." Jon whispered. "Why are you here? Why now? Please, let me hold you, let me at least touch you. _Please..._ " 

Daenys grinned at his plea, circling around the room playfully. "Balerion the Black Dread's shadow could swallow an entire town when he took flight," Daenys began, not holding back her pride. "His teeth were as sharp and long as bastard swords. He died at the age of two hundred... Take a look at Drogon. Only twenty-three, yet her shadow swallowed your entire village. Drogon is a she, did I mention that? We're not used to it, I suppose. Spears can no longer harm her. Her fire is as black as her skin." Daenys paused. Looked him in the eyes. Took a deep breath. "I am here to burn Westeros to the ground," she confided. "The Ironborn led by Queen Yara Greyjoy are preparing to sack Winterfell as we speak. The Dornish army is ready to march to King's Landing, under prince Basir's command. 

Jon's eyes widened. "They know?" 

"They've known since the beginning. Remained loyal to house Targaryen, and their loyalty will be rewarded." 

"Daenys, please-"

"Write a letter to your sister and brother. Tell them House Targaryen is coming to avenge Queen Daenerys Stormborn. Once Daeron lands on Dragonstone and our fleet meets our allies in the open sea, you will wish the Night King had won."

He watched her as she opened the door, before her words began to make sense. Daenys' black eyes were empty. The same look the love of his life had when she ascended to power was now on his daughter's face. 

_Daenys Targaryen._  
  
 _The child of Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow._  
  
 _The same child he secretly hoped would grow inside his queen's womb, the same child he dreamed_  
 _about all those years ago on that boat, before everything went to_ _shit_.

"Daeron?" Jon recalled her words.

The doors were shut with force, sending Tormund and Davos to their feet. They were ordered to stand in front of Jon's hut the entire time by Daenys. They didn't have much freedom to protest, instead they listened to Daenys' words carefully, hoping to come up with some kind of solution. 

Daenys walked past them, never looking up, never looking down. Jon stormed out, after her.

"Who's Daeron?"

"Oh," Daenys smirked, turning to face him one last time as Drogon landed in front of her. "If my words scared you, father, wait til you meet your son." 

_Daenys and Daeron Targaryen, daughter and son of Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow._

**Author's Note:**

> Depends on the response, I might even turn this baby into a multichapter. Who knows.


End file.
